Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 345(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“What’d he do again?” Carson asks curiously.
“Fell asleep while keeping guard.”
There’s a pause. “You fired him over that?”
“Of course I did. What good is he asleep?”
“None,” Carson concurs. “But, question, boss. Was Caitlin in the room? Was she the one he was meant to guard?”
“Shut it, Carson,” I tell him. “Fire him. Have Cormac walk him out. Get his papers.”
I’m fuming by the time I get down to the entrance and let Bradley in.
“So sorry to get you so early, boss,” he says, stepping into the house. He’s a short, stocky guy related to Sebastian, our doctor. Their family, like several others, has worked for ours for years.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “Let’s go to the office.”
The office, one of the larger meeting spaces on this floor, is only a few paces from the main entrance. I sit at the chair behind the desk and welcome him in. “I want all the news you have.”
“Can you tell me what she told you?” he asks, and the way he asks it makes me wonder if he suspects her of a lie. Goddammit, I hate the way it makes me feel when he asks that. I hate that she might’ve been lying. It isn’t uncommon for prisoners, of course. But why do I feel as if I were betrayed by a good friend? She isn’t my friend.
“She told me she’s been kept in the lighthouse her whole life,” I tell him. “Her father told her there was danger outside the lighthouse, and that if she left, she’d be killed.”
He nods vigorously. “Good. Good. This is what I need to hear.”
I scowl at him. “She says she was not in possession of the notes and papers and that she knew nothing about them.”
“Also true,” Bradley says, nodding his head. Okay, then. This is good. Maybe she didn’t lie to me.
“She’s been thoroughly educated, and she’s well read. Her father taught her.”
“The man who called himself her father,” Bradley corrects.
I pause, leaning pack in the chair, and eye him curiously. Now that I didn’t expect.
“Come again?”
“Jack Anderson was not her father,” he says, shaking his head. “It wasn’t possible. He was American, we know that, and I traced his roots back to Boston. He likely had an affiliation with the Boston Irish.”
“So how does that possibly prevent him from being her biological father?” I ask.
“Because Jack Anderson was married once. To one of the Boston Irish. She died from ovarian cancer when she was thirty, and he had a vasectomy before she died.”
Likely thought if she couldn’t have children, he wouldn’t either, I wonder. But then why did he tell Caitlin he was her father?
And who was her mother?
I shake my head. Bradley’s raised more questions than he’s answered.
“Did you check the fingerprints on the notes we have?” I ask him.
He nods, frowning. “Yes, and superficially it looks as if she could’ve taken the notes. But you don’t pay me to do a superficial investigation.”
“Certainly not,” I tell him, and imagine reaching over the table and wrapping my hand around his neck. I don’t like how long it’s taking him to tell me this. “For fuck’s sake, spit it out,” I tell him.
“Please show me the writing sample you got.”
I take the folded paper out of my pocket and lay it on the desk.
“Exactly what I expected,” he says. “The notes are taken in a decidedly masculine slanted script. Hers is not at all like his. It’s finer, more feminine.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“Her prints are on the outside of the books only. You found them in her possession. Therefore, her prints, as well as some of yours and Cormac’s are all over them. But in the pages of the books? Nothing. Hers are absent. And that’d be impossible if she were the one taking notes.”
“It was her father, then,” I say with a nod. “Or Jack Anderson, I should say.”
“Yes,” Bradley says. “What was his affiliation with the Boston Irish? I don’t know. But something tells me the clue will come if we find out who her mother was.”
“And you’ve no answers for me on that count?”
He shakes his head. “None,” he says. “How old is she?”
I shake my head. “I’ve no idea.”
“Do you know her birthday? Where she might’ve been born?”
I shake my head. “Unfortunately not.”
I stroke my chin. I want to find out everything I can about her. Who her real parents are. Why the man who called himself her father kept her so well hidden. Something tells me she fits into the picture of our puzzle, but I don’t know how or why.
Bradley gets to his feet. “I’ll tell you who to ask.”
I scowl. “Father Finn?”
He nods, folding up his papers. “The very same. He’s the one that’ll know what to tell you. How did you even find out she was there?”